


Pulse

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Garridebs moment, Hurt/Comfort, Injured John, Kissing, M/M, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Prompt Fic, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, hand holding, touch-starved Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-29 20:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14480187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: “Don’t,” John says abruptly, a hint of desperation in his voice.I look back at him, unsure of how to respond.“Sherlock, will you stay with me?” he asks, and he leans in and gives me another soft kiss on the lips.“Yes,” I reply simply. “Yes, of course I will."





	Pulse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unicornpoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/gifts).



When I return after my two years away, the first thing John does is take both of my hands into his, resting his thumbs over each pulse point on my wrists.

“I can’t believe you left me this way,” he says to me with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “And there are countless things I need to know.”

Heaving a sigh, he tightens his grip around my wrists. “But not now. All I need to know now, Sherlock, is that you're real.”

He stands there silently, eyes closed, feeling the beat of my heart at his fingertips, and he doesn’t let go for a very long time.

His touch is the most sensational thing I’ve ever experienced.

 

* * *

 

The next morning at breakfast, we sit across the table from one another.

John is very angry.

He does nothing aside from reading his newspaper, furiously and blatantly ignoring me. He doesn’t even lift his eyes when he takes a sip of his tea.

Inexplicably, my hands feel an aching discomfort at the fact that they aren’t in his. Which is ridiculous, because I’d never known what it was like until the previous night. But I suppose, as with any drug, one never learns to crave it until the first experience.

When he reaches down to take his fourth sip of tea, I grasp onto one of his hands. “John,” I say urgently. “My pulse."

He finally looks up at me, exhaling a short breath of laughter through his nose. "What about it, Sherlock?"

"It’s very strong this morning,” I inform him. 

“Yeah?” he asks, adjusting his gaze and allowing his eyes to settle onto the insides of my wrists. Laying his newspaper down, he sets his hands onto the table, palms facing up. "Let me see."

So I place my hands into his with a smile of satisfaction.

I pray he doesn’t notice how elevated it has become.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, we sit on the sofa together, quietly watching the evening news. Well, John is watching the news. I am watching John. His face, his eyelashes, his nose, his mouth, his hair. I've missed them. I've missed him. While I was away, I relied solely on previous data to remember him by. But over time, the sharpness of it faded. So I take in as much as I can, re-cataloguing it all quickly.

“John,” I say, a tad more enthusiastically than I'd anticipated.  
  
“Hm?” he answers softly.

“I need to know what your pulse feels like, too.”

He doesn’t look away from the TV screen, but he smiles as he slides his hand into mine. I wrap my fingers around his wrist and begin to add the data to my collection.

 

* * *

 

After that, our hands seem to find one another wherever we go.

“Pulse,” I’ll say in the kitchen while John is making tea. Or in a taxicab, or while we’re at a restaurant having dinner. Each time, he wordlessly reaches out to take my hand.

Eventually, there is no need to utter a word about it—we simply weave our fingers together as though it were inevitable.

 

* * *

 

One windy evening, we are walking down Baker Street, shoulder to shoulder. My hair is blowing wildly into my face, but I ignore it, until I feel the warmth of John’s hand tangling through my curls.

Freezing, I turn my head to face him.

“Sorry,” he smiles apologetically. “There was a leaf, and your hair was a little bit tousled—”

“No,” I interrupt. “It’s alright. I suppose it does get a bit tangled at times.”

He smiles at me again, tucking my hair behind my ear.

"Thank you," I whisper.

His hand lingers before he removes it, taking several moments to smooth down my curls. When he does, the skin on my scalp vibrates so loudly that I feel as though I may faint.

 

* * *

 

After that, whenever John slides his fingers through my hair, sometimes, the palms of his hands brush the nape of my neck. I lose control of my voice, and the sounds I begin to make are utterly embarrassing. I’m sure it’s embarrassing for him as well, but rather than stopping, he only chuckles lightly and continues.

Other times, his fingers come down to trace the sides of my face, and he lingers over the curves of my cheekbones. When he does that, the look he gives me makes me feel safe.

The sudden removal of leave-in conditioner from my morning hygiene routine is purely and completely coincidental.

 

* * *

 

On the sofa one Tuesday, while John watches television and I watch John, one of his hands is in mine, the other in my hair. Letting his fingers slide past the nape of my neck, he gently begins to rub my shoulders. There is tension there that I had never realised I had been holding onto. With his touch, it falls off like a heavy rainstorm.

Apparently, it's enough to put me to sleep. The next thing I know, I am awake on the sofa. The sun is up, and John is snoring lightly, his arms wrapped around me.

And there is no other way for us to be together on the sofa after that; arms snaked around one another’s bodies, limbs entwined.

 

* * *

 

The day comes that I almost lose my mind with fear.

I receive a phone call from Lestrade. It’s about John. He’d been riding home from work in a taxicab, and had gotten into an accident.

When I hear the news, the world around me becomes harsh, but at the same time, blurred. I don’t know how I end up in the hospital waiting room, but Lestrade is seated there, and I run to him faster than I’ve ever run to anything. He doesn’t even have the time to look at me and realise what’s happening before I grab him by the collar and pull him out of his chair.

“Where is John?” I roar at him.

Lestrade catches his balance and sets his hands on my shoulders, attempting to calm me down. “He’s okay, Sherlock. He’s conscious. A little bit of a neck sprain, possibly some broken bones, and probably a minor concussion. They just need to observe him for a bit.”

I shake Lestrade by the collar. “I need to see him. How can I see him?”

“Sherlock, mate.” Lestrade yanks my hands off himself roughly, spinning me around and pulling my arms behind my back. “If you don’t calm down, I’m going to have to cuff you.”

I inhale and exhale harshly, not responding. It’s only then that I notice my eyes brimming with tears.

“He’s not allowed to have visitors right now,” Lestrade explains, letting go of my hands. “But you’re the first person he asked for. The moment he’s allowed, you’ll be—”

“Sherlock Holmes?” A voice calls out from the entryway. It's a medical professional of some kind. “John Watson is asking to see you.”

“John,” I breathe, and my pulse becomes weaker.

 

* * *

 

When I enter the hospital room, I see John—his head wrapped in bandages, a brace around his neck. Until then, I hadn’t realised it possible to feel such biting relief and sadness at the same time.

“Sherlock,” he says, smiling at me, and somehow, through the bandages and the bruises, his smile is the most radiant I've ever seen it. 

I stumble to his bed as fast as my legs will carry me. My hands flying to the sides of his face, I take his mouth into mine for a soft kiss. “Are you alright?” I ask him urgently, my voice cracking. “John, please tell me you’re alright.”

He takes my hand into one of his, the other hand smoothing down my curls. “Of course I am,” he says with a comforting smile. “I’m fine. It was just a minor accident. But Sherlock,” he says, his hand lingering at the side of my face. “I should be asking you the same.”

“What?” I frown at him.

He chuckles, his eyes twinkling, and I wonder how the hell he can be so calm.

“You seem pretty shaken,” he replies.

“Oh,” I respond, attempting to catch my breath. “I just thought you might be—” As my eyes fall, John pulls me down to plant an equally chaste kiss on my lips. It sends an electric current through my entire body.

“Sherlock, I’m fine, I promise.” He delicately moves both of my hands to his and wraps my fingers around his wrists so that I can feel his pulse. "See?" he says soothingly. And his heartbeat is the most miraculous thing I've ever felt.

I fall heavily into the chair next to his bed. That night, they keep John in the hospital to run tests, and I stay there. I hold his hand, running his fingertips over my lips and kissing them while he is sound asleep.

 

* * *

 

We return home the following day. With my arms around his waist to help him keep his balance, I walk him to the sofa and we sit down together. I stare at him silently and he begins to stroke my hair. Smiling, I lean into his touch.

“While you’re recovering,” I say thoughtfully, “You should really take my bed. It’s going to be a gigantic effort to get you up and down an additional flight of stairs.”

John blinks at me with a warmth in his gaze. “If I sleep in your bed, where are you going to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I suppose I can sleep on the sofa. Though I’m not sure I’ll be sleeping much, anyway.”

“Don’t,” John says abruptly, a hint of desperation in his voice.

I look back at him, unsure of how to respond.

“Sherlock, will you stay with me?” he asks, and he leans in and gives me another soft kiss on the lips.

“Yes,” I reply simply. “Yes, of course I will."

So we walk together into my bedroom, and he lays himself down on top of the duvet. I lie down next to him, and he weaves his fingers into mine, and we are both asleep before our heads hit the pillow.

 

* * *

 

My bed becomes our bed. Every day, we wake up together, and we kiss one another good morning. And before long, we kiss for other reasons. We kiss each other goodnight. I kiss him before he leaves for work. I kiss him when he comes home. He kisses me when I make a particularly brilliant deduction. He kisses me when I make a deduction that isn’t particularly brilliant.

The kisses never linger; they are always short, always sweet. But regardless of that, each one makes my stomach flip a thousand times over.

And once John is feeling better, we go back to taking cases. And he kisses me once we return home after they’re solved.

After one spectacular case, the details of which I don’t remember, John and I run home, and we are high on adrenaline. We walk upstairs, into the flat, and swing the door shut behind us. Out of habit, I lean in to give him a quick kiss.

John’s hands fall roughly onto my shoulders, and he pushes me against the door, kissing me harder and longer than I'd been prepared for. A startled moan escapes my lips, but I kiss him back with equal fervour. He leans back, smiles at me, and he takes my hands into his. We walk to bed and fall asleep in one another’s arms.

Two days after that, we have an even more spectacular case, and this time, we scarcely make it back our flat. We enter the corridor, laughing and gasping and out of breath. And before we reach the stairwell, John has me in his arms, and is sliding his tongue against my lips. I let them fall open, and we explore the taste of one another for minutes on end.

His taste is glorious, and I add it to my list of addictions.

 

* * *

 

It happens after every case. We return home, pulses thrumming. We pant into each other's mouths until we forget what it feels like to breathe our own air. And if I begin to take on more and more cases than ever before, even the twos and the threes- again, this is purely coincidental. 

It's no surprise that the passionate kissing begins to happen in various other places. In the kitchen while the tea kettle boils; in the sitting room while we are entangled and watching television; in the taxicab while he’s feeling my pulse. 

Wherever we go, whatever the situation is, it seems to end with me kissing John desperately as he runs his fingers through my hair, down my face, on the back of my neck, and I wrap my arms around his back because I don’t know where else to touch.

On a Thursday, as I am kissing him against the refrigerator, his teeth gently biting onto my lips, I pull my head back, completely breathless. John moans discontentedly, and he leans out to take my mouth back, but his lips land on my neck. The feeling, like anything else with John, is so immediately overwhelming that my head becomes completely clouded. Gasping at the sensation, I tilt my head back to enhance the feeling. He plants kisses to my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone.

Another night, after spending four monstrous hours at the police station, we find ourselves in bed, kissing, fully clothed and open mouthed. John is lying on top of me, rutting against my upper thigh. With a responding roll of my hips, I groan into his mouth, and we kiss one another until we're exhausted and fall asleep.

This becomes our nightly routine:

Have dinner.

Brush teeth.

Shower.

Go to bed.

Kiss.

Pant.

Pulses skyrocketing.

Sigh.

Kiss some more.

Sleep.

On yet another night, when I take John’s hand into mine, I move it to the zipper of my trousers.

“I need you to touch me,” I say softly in between kisses, and he smiles against my mouth, following my directions. I reach to his zipper as well. We rub against one another until the feeling becomes so overwhelmingly pleasurable that a pulsing, shaking sensation overtakes me completely, and the world seems to fade into oblivion.

John kisses my temple reverently and whispers into my ear that it’s the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen.

After that, he seems to want to make this happen as often as possible. Every night, and sometimes during the day as well, he does what he can to bring me back to this oblivion. He brings me there with his mouth. With his hands. Under my pants, over my pants, clothed, naked, on our sides, on our backs, on our stomachs.

John Watson is a fucking genius. 

On a Saturday, I’m lying on my back, his head below my waist. I fall into ecstasy, throwing my own head backwards, biting my lip and moaning against the pillow. After I return to full consciousness, I look down at him, and he is gazing back at me, his eyes black and filled with bliss. I bend myself up and take his face into my hands.

“I want to make you feel this way too,” I whisper, staring him in the eye. “Let me see how beautiful you are.”

He pulls himself off of me with a grin, and sets his hands atop of mine. “Alright,” he says quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

I kiss him softly and tenderly, my pulse becoming irregular. “It is,” I say. “Yes, it definitely is.”

I flip him over onto his back and remove his trousers and pants, moving my own mouth down. John immediately groans and wraps his fingers into my hair, pulling on it, jerking his hips and making noises I never knew he was capable of.

 

* * *

 

The pattern continues for weeks on end, but I find that, no matter what, I can never get enough of his touch. I need more, always more. More touch, more John.

“More,” I say to him one night, as his fingers are wandering underneath my pants.

Understanding, he takes the lube off the nightstand, and pours it over one finger. 

“More,” I repeat, and he pours it over a second. 

“More,” I say, but a third is not enough.

“John,” I whine desperately. “I need you. All of you. Please.”

Both our faces are drenched in sweat, and he leans in to kiss me softly on the cheek. “Are you sure?” he asks. His voice is low as he holds me gently.

"Yes,” I say with a ragged breath. "Yes, I'm sure."

“Wrap your legs around me,” he quietly commands, brushing a kiss against my cheek. Lying on my back, I use my legs to pull him closer, and closer, until I can feel him. He kisses me on the mouth, and I feel a surge of relief as he pushes in.

Our bodies move together slowly, slick with sweat, and John rests his forehead onto mine. He continues to buck his hips into me until my skin is buzzing, goosebumps forming over my flesh.

”Tell me what you want,” he growls.  

“Oh my God, John," I gasp. "I want...I want to touch you all over, to feel you against my skin. I want to feel your pulse against my fingertips, and to never lose that feeling again.”

And then, I suddenly lose the capacity for words.  

“Sh,” John whispers against my neck. “Let go, Sherlock. I have you.” Then, he slides his mouth onto mine and kisses me deeply.

My vision fills with stars as I use my knees to pull him in closer, closer, closer.

“John,” I breathe, my entire world falling away. “ _John_.”

“Sherlock,” John groans, his arms giving out as he falls on top of me. “God, Sherlock. You’re still the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen."

 

* * *

 

And that becomes our normal. In the kitchen, while the tea kettle is boiling. On the sofa, our bodies tangled around one another. Against the front door, his fingers running through my hair. In bed, while he whispers words of affection into my ear.

One day, five months after I had returned, John comes home from work. I stand up from my armchair to greet him, and he wraps his arms around my waist, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“Hey,” he says. And there is a strange grin on his face.

I furrow my brow. “What is it, John?”

John reaches into his pocket and hands me a slip of paper. “Just found out one of my coworkers has a crush on you.”

I take the paper from his hand and look at it. “It’s a phone number,” I say in confusion.

“It is,” John teases. “He wanted me to give it to you.”

I stare blankly back at him, bewildered.

“Why on Earth would I want someone’s phone number?” I sink backwards onto my chair in exasperation, pulling him down with me. He positions himself in my lap, draping his legs over mine. “How can you be so immensely daft, John? Isn’t it obvious that I’m yours, and you’re mine?”

John laughs, kissing my temple and running his fingers through my hair. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. That was a bit not good of me to do," he says, crumpling up the paper and throwing it to the ground. “It's obvious to me," he says, leaning over to whisper into my ear. "Just wanted to be sure it was obvious to you.” 

I sniff indignantly and shake my head in disbelief. “Some things don’t need to be stated, John. Like the atomic mass of iron. And the burning point of tobacco. And the fact that we belong to one another.”

“You’re right,” John agrees with a smile. “Simple chemistry, really.”

I lay my head into the crook of his neck. “I quite like chemistry,” I say, breathing into his skin. “And I quite like you as well.”

He leans backward and looks down at me with an unbridled affection. “I quite like you, too, you know.” And he weaves our fingers together. “One might even call this feeling love.”

“Is that what you would call it?” I ask.

“I would,” he responds with a grin. “Yeah, definitely. That’s what I’d call it.”

I place his palm against the side of my face, leaning into it affectionately. “And when were you planning on informing me of that?”

John throws his head back with a laugh. “Some things don’t need to be stated, Sherlock,” he says. “Like the fact that the sky is blue. And that one plus one equals two. And that I’m absolutely, ridiculously, and madly in love with you.”

And when he takes me into a passionate kiss, I forget all about the colour of the sky. I suddenly know nothing of primary arithmetic and the periodic table. I'm unfamiliar with the burning point of tobacco, and the normal range of a human pulse.

All I know is that I love John Watson, too.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Pulse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14489496) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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